


Einfühlung

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Misunderstandings, Prompt Fic, empath!John, resolutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have a discussion about Sherlock's treatment of the rabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Einfühlung

**Author's Note:**

> This is my fic for the AO3 Auction, in which 2012ohmy bid way more than I thought anyone would in order to get me write them a story. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> As far as the general timeline for the empath stories, I'm pretty sure this takes place after the first series but before the second. Somewhere in there, after they're pretty established, but while things are still pretty new.
> 
> Thanks to Nanners and PrettyArbitrary for beta duties.
> 
> Thanks also to Nanners for help with the title.

John clenches and unclenches his fists, staring hard at Sherlock. Sherlock stares back, confused. It’s written on his face, he knows it is. It must be filtering through, but John doesn’t acknowledge it. John is angry with him, furious in fact, but Sherlock doesn’t know why.

“I will see you at home,” John grinds out, voice barely more than a low growl.

Surprised, Sherlock can only nod assent. John turns on his heel--Sherlock hasn’t seen him look this much a soldier in a long time--and strides away. There may be the hint of a limp in his gait.

Lestrade watches John walk away before turning a confused look to Sherlock. “What was that about?”

Sherlock doesn’t shrug, he doesn’t even look at Greg, staring after John’s retreating form. “I don’t know.”

With a shake of his head, he tries to push the confusion to the back of his mind. He tries to banish the anger he can still feel from John, and the worry that he’s done something irrevocable, something truly wrong. 

Sherlock returns his focus to the crime scene, and for a little while, he’s almost able to forget about John’s anger and his worry about it. Almost.

\----

He stands outside the flat for longer than he should. Mrs Hudson would tell him he’s dithering, he’s sure, but the truth of the matter is he’s afraid. Afraid of confronting John, of being told ‘that’s enough, I’m done’. No matter how many times John says “you’re stuck with me”, there are still moments when Sherlock cannot believe it; the experience of his whole life has told him that no one ever stays. Not even his brother had stayed.

John is pacing the living room when Sherlock finally enters the flat, literally dragging his feet like a child. There’s a mug of tea on the coffee table, along with a bottle of scotch and an empty tumbler. He looks at John, observes the way he paces, the set of his shoulders, the thunderous look on his face. Sherlock feels his own mouth turn down in a frown; he hates the way he feels right now, he hates the way John feels. He hates the crawling, antsy feeling of it, skittering up his spine and making him want to lash out, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, how to make it go away. 

John has been pacing since he returned home, that’s easy enough to see. He’d had half of his cup of tea, hadn’t found it soothing, and had gulped two fingers of scotch. The scotch hadn’t helped either, Sherlock can see it. He can see it all, except for the reason behind John’s anger.

John keeps pacing for a few minutes while Sherlock stands there watching him. It doesn’t lead him to any further insight, and Sherlock just wants to creep away. But he doesn’t, because he knows that will make things worse; he’s done it enough times to know that doesn’t work with John.

Finally, John turns to face Sherlock. Sherlock watches his fists clench and unclench, clench again. 

“I’m angry with you, Sherlock,” John says.

“Are you leaving?” Sherlock asks. _That_ wasn’t what he’d meant to say.

John looks startled, taken aback. “What? No. No, of course I’m not leaving, Sherlock. Jesus, what gives you that idea?”

Sherlock shrugs. He doesn’t want to answer. _People get angry with me, annoyed, fed up. And then they leave. It’s inevitable._

John takes a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh. He rubs his hands over his face, and then crosses the room to Sherlock. John puts his arms around Sherlock and pulls him close.

Sherlock feels the warmth radiating from John, mental and physical, and he wants to relax but he doesn’t dare. John speaks into his chest, not looking up at him.

“I’m angry with you, Sherlock, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to leave. People get angry with each other sometimes; it happens. You talk it out, and hopefully both people come to a good place, a good compromise, and work on the things they need to work on, and keep going. OK? You really are stuck with me, I promise. I’m not going anywhere.”

John keeps holding him, and after a few minutes, Sherlock can’t stop his traitorous body from relaxing into the embrace, from lifting his arms to John’s back and holding him in return. They stand like that for a while, just holding each other. Sherlock lets his mind drift, afloat on the peace of John’s regard for him.

John is still angry with him, but it’s been tempered now, by the way John usually feels for him, that warmth and solidity there, both in his mind and in his body. Sherlock feels some of his worry slip away. Maybe he’ll be able to fix this; hopefully he will, hopefully they will.

Eventually, John lets go and takes a step back. “You all right?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“Do you know why I’m angry with you, Sherlock?”

Sherlock tries to step back into John’s embrace and is thwarted, so he slumps and hunches over, shaking his head minutely and watching John from beneath his lashes, watching for his reaction.

John sighs again, but it’s a resigned sigh. He’s not surprised that Sherlock is unaware of where his ire comes from. It doesn’t seem to increase the anger though, so that’s good.

“Do you remember the police constable? The first responder today?”

Slowly, Sherlock nods. He sort of remembers. He remembers stupidity and destruction of vital evidence, anyway. Not the most vital evidence, but still: destruction. Of. Evidence.

“You humiliated him,” John says, quiet. 

Sherlock blinks. He had? He doesn’t remember what he’d said, he only vaguely remembers talking to the young PC at all. The man had barely been worth his notice, and then only because of his stupidity. There had been more important matters to see to, and then there had been John’s anger washing through him, leaving him prickling and uneasy in its wake, and the young man had been put out of mind as unimportant.

“You didn’t feel it at all, did you?”

Sherlock shakes his head again. No, he hadn’t. He’d been focussed on the evidence, on the puzzle, and then on John.

“All right,” John says. He seems to be thinking hard, and Sherlock waits, not sure where John is going with this. “All right.” 

John helps him take his coat and scarf off while he thinks, hangs them up for Sherlock, and leads him across the lounge to the sofa, sitting him down and sitting next to him.

“You may not feel it, or perhaps you just didn’t register it, but I felt it, Sherlock. And it hurts. It felt like you were doing that to me. Like you were humiliating me. It was awful. You can be so cruel sometimes.” John holds up a hand to forestall Sherlock’s protest. “I know that you say things without thinking, and you take your frustrations out on others because it keeps them at a distance. But it makes me angry when you treat people like that. That man didn’t deserve that.”

“But--”

“Some people do, Sherlock. Sometimes. I just want you to be more aware of what’s coming out of your mouth. I want you to be more aware of other people. You don’t have to let them in, but I think you should try to... well, empathise a bit. Sometimes. I know you feel these things somewhere, because I feel them, and you feel what I feel, and I want you to start connecting your actions to these things. OK?”

“Ooooh... kay?” Sherlock replies. He does not like the sound of this at all. But it’s John, it’s what John wants, so he’ll work on it. “I’ll try, John, if you want me to that badly.”

John smiles at him, and Sherlock can feel the ebb of his anger, like the tide of the Thames turning, flowing out and away, cooling as it flows out of him. This is all John has ever wanted from him, for him to try to be a better man. And for John, he finds he actually wants to try. It’s a heady and disconcerting thing.

“Do you remember what that man felt, Sherlock?” At this point, John feels like he’s leading Sherlock through a maze, Sherlock can feel it. And he regrets that, but this is all still so new to him. John doesn’t seem to really mind, though.

“No,” he replies.

“I want to show you, okay?”

Sherlock shrugs. And then the world comes crashing in on him, burying him. His blood boils, his brain shrieks in pain, and he curls in on himself, trying to shy away from the awful feelings beating through his veins in time with his heartbeat, and the awful memories they bring flooding back. He remembers all the times he’d felt this way when he was a child, when no one understood him, when they all called him a freak and a weirdo and teacher’s pet and _wrong_. He remembers vowing that he’d never let anyone make him feel like that again, and he remembers when he started to close people out, when he’d stopped letting anyone get close to him.

Until John.

When Sherlock becomes aware of himself and his surroundings again, he’s curled around John and his face is wet with tears. John is murmuring soothing nonsense against his head, his fingers twisted gently in Sherlock’s hair, rocking him back and forth just a little bit.

“Are you all right?” John asks.

If Sherlock only manages to whimper in response, well, no one is going to say.

“So we’re going to work on this, right?”

Sherlock nods against John’s chest. He’ll work on it, if only so John never has to feel like that because of something he did again, never has to remind him how it feels.

“Good.” John slowly extricates himself from Sherlock’s grasp, though Sherlock chases him every step of the way. Once he’s standing, he reaches out to Sherlock and pulls him to his feet.

“Let’s go to bed.”

Sherlock nods and follows John down the hall to their room.


End file.
